Little Things Mean a Lot
by the ancient mystic
Summary: Being a teenager isn't easy. Add in a country occupied by the Germans, a friend who is involved with a network helping airmen to escape and feelings for a man which are inappropriate, and life becomes a whole lot more complicated. A SECRET ARMY FANFICTION.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N-Hello, I have been over run with a case of the dreaded plot bunny and so I have written this. I don't know if anyone else has written any Secret Army fanfiction, so this maybe the first. Hope you all enjoy it. AM**

 **Disclaimer-I don't own anything in this story apart from my OCs**.

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She'd never really cared much for politics. It was always one group of people telling another group of people one thing, when they actually meant the complete opposite.

Politics was the reason why she was in Belgium. It was the reason why her father had been shot, and the reason why she was now unable to leave Brussels and go home to England. It was probably the most dangerous thing in existence. Not a weapon or an army, an idea. Starting from just one person, it could spread like wildfire. Never pausing, never stopping. It was all encompassing.

Everyday she paced these same halls, up and down the staircases too and wondered why. Why would someone start a war over something as small as different ideals, when it would cause the deaths of millions.

It was just one idea after all, just one, that had caused her family to slip right through her fingertips like sand. If it hadn't have been for that one night she would still be in England, with her parents and her little brother and sister. Life would have been better. She wouldn't have been left on her own so young or have had to pretend to be French to avoid being put in an Interment Camp. Life would have been better. Her Father would come walking in from work whistling, a tune always on his lips. Her mother would be in the kitchen making her sweet honey cake. Bill would be a strapping young lad at 14 and Lily. Sweet little Lily would throw her arms around her in a big hug and beg her to play dollies. But there was no point in thinking about what would have been. This was her life now, and they were all gone.

For the past three years, she had been working for the Germans. Not out of choice, more out of necessity. Her aunt had been killed and she couldn't afford rent. The Germans had needed someone to make refreshments for the office workers, so she had applied. It wasn't good money, but it was enough to get by on. Besides, it wasn't as if her work was very taxing. The majority of her duties were serving tea and coffee, although mostly coffee. And on the odd occasion going out to buy cigarettes for which ever official had run out and was too busy to go buy more.

A door to her left suddenly flew open and two soldiers strode out, dragging a man between them. He didn't look very good, all bloodied and bruised.

She stopped by the wall, choosing to remain out of the way until they had passed by. She had told herself long ago that it was none of her business what happened here. Especially if it involved allied airmen.

The door opened again and another man strode out. "Herr Sturmbannführer," she murmured politely, bobbing her head.

He cast his eyes over her but remained completely silent. Ludwig Kessler was not a man to cross. He was cold and aloof. And as a member of the Gestapo, could be a very dangerous enemy. She usually tried to remain out of his way.

She found that keeping her head down and staying quiet was the best way to stay out of trouble. She wasn't even sure if anyone in the building even knew her name, outside a few young soldiers. She was just a nameless ghost. The spirit who is always there but never seen. It was a good thing too, as the fewer people who took notice of her, probably meant that she was doing her job properly.

She waited until Kessler was out of sight before moving again. It wasn't often that she came to this floor, as it was home to the more important officials, Kessler being one of them. They tended to have assistants who would come down to the kitchen to fetch coffee and the like, which she of course had to make. But it was part of the job to know who was in each office, and how and when they liked their tea or coffee.

This office in particular belonged to Major Brandt, a member of the Luftwaffe. What his job was, she wasn't exactly sure. But she knew it had something to do with the police. All in all, she didn't know him very well if at all. She had of course heard bits and pieces from his assistant, a young soldier called Anton Müller.

Anton was very committed to doing a good job. Apart from the times when he came down to the kitchen to fetch coffee, he was either stuck behind a desk taking notes or sent on errands to other officials. It wasn't any wonder that whenever he came to the basement, he would tell her all sorts of things. He wasn't particularly handsome, but he was good company. Sometimes she wondered how he became a soldier in the first place. He couldn't be any older than about 18 and from what she had learned about him, was just a boy at heart who only wanted to do his best. So the fact that he was not at his desk when she knew he should have been, was concerning.

She walked towards the desk, curiosity taking the place of common sense. She knew that she shouldn't be there, even if it was just the outer office. If she got caught, she could be accused of being a spy. Which would mean being shot or worse, being tortured by the Gestapo and then being shot. Either way it wouldn't end well.

The sound of breaking glass suddenly met her ears, making her flinch and turn around immediately. It was okay though, there wasn't anyone behind her. The noise had come from within Major Brandt's office instead.

She tapped lightly on the inner door. There was no answer. Going against every fibre of her being, she pushed the door open and walked in. Major Brandt was sitting behind a desk at the back of the room.

"Herr Major," she asked softly. He didn't even seem to notice her. He was just hunched over in a chair and holding his hands close to his face.

She took a tentative step forward. Her shoes made little sound on the floor, a talent she had picked up a few years ago. The area around the desk was a mess. There was blood on the floor, scuff marks near the desk and a photo frame was lying face down in a sea of broken glass.

"Herr Major," she repeated.

She knelt down and took his hands lightly. There were a whole host of cuts on them; some light, others deep and one in his left hand was streaming blood. It had clearly come from the broken frame, now lying on the floor. She guided his hands away from his face and just held them. Her mother always used to say, a gentle hand and a kind heart are the best way to help. And now it rang true, as that gentle bodily contact seemed to bring him out and his eyes flicked to her face. There was some recognition in there, but his mind was still on something far away.

"Herr Major, you're hurt," she continued in the same soft tone. "Let me help."

She pulled out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and pressed it to the bleeding wound.

It was never good to cut your hand, especially this deep. Unless you got it taken care of fairly quickly, bacteria could get in and cause an infection.

She kept the fabric pressed to his hand, keeping her eyes on it the entire time. It was one of her personal rules; never look any German official in the eye, unless they were talking to you. Although sometimes it could be awkward, especially when they decided to just look at her instead. She glanced up only to find him watching her, half-heartedly, but still he was watching her. She didn't like it when people watched her.

Noticing that the bleeding had slowed down some, she tied the fabric around his hand and stood up, brushing her skirt off as she went. "Is there anything else you need, Herr Major?"

"...no, you may go," he said finally. There was definitely something wrong, and she knew it. Though she didn't dare bring it up.

She bobbed her head and moved back towards the door. Before she was stopped, by his voice.

"What's your name, Mademoiselle?"

"Gabrielle, Herr Major."

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 **A/N-Was it any good? If you think so tell me in the box below. AM**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N-Hi, I'm back. Here's chapter 2!**

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It was rather quiet in the kitchen, save for the slight ticking of the clock and the occasional crackle from the old radio. It wasn't often that she had some time to just sit down and not worry about her responsibilities. There were 40 offices in the building in total, some of which were home to at least three or four separate officials, each with their own preferences on how and when they wanted their coffee. Not to mention the other duties, like the errands she had to attend to or providing the odd light meal when someone was too busy to eat. All of it meant that throughout the day she was usually on her feet, so to be able to sit down was somewhat of a luxury, even if it was in a basement kitchen.

She didn't have much to complain about the standard of the room though, it was adequate for its requirements. Apart from the usual kitchen equipment, there was an old maroon coloured sofa, a coffee table, a faded red rug and a small wooden dining table with a few chairs, most of which had been repaired. It may not all have matched, but it was comfortable. And it reminded her of home before the war.

Having been born in the mid-1920s, she had grown up in the shadow of mass poverty and unemployment, so home hadn't exactly been very well off. Usually it had been made up of whatever furniture could be found, no matter the condition, because there was always a person who was either able to fix it or knew someone else who could. If there was one thing that she had learned from such situations, it was that if a person needed something, you would do it even without being asked.

That was the reason why she was sitting at her table, trying to fix the broken photo frame from Major Brandt's office. Trying being operative word, as it was more of a splintered mess, bits of glass sticking out everywhere. Anton had brought it down a few days ago with the instruction to throw it out. She didn't understand why though. Sure it was a complete mess, but it seemed to have been well loved. And it still contained a photograph.

She started digging through the box on the table beside her. The box contained all sorts of things. From everyday items like bits of string, pieces of wood and a box of buttons. To rarer things like pieces of silk, two pairs of stockings and even a small pane of glass, which she'd had to trade with a farmer for. All of the base components were replaceable, she just had to find them amongst everything else, along with a way to take the frame apart without damaging the photograph, as it was probably the only copy.

It was a sweet picture, but sad also. There was a woman sitting with her arms around her two children. She was pretty of a sort and all made up. There was a young boy who looked about 10 and was wearing something that she could only suppose was a Hilter Youth uniform, and a little girl who couldn't be any older than maybe 2, with her hair in two plaits. Anton had told her that the woman in the picture was Brandt's wife, Erika. And that she, along with their son, had been killed when a bomb was dropped on their house in the Berlin.

It made her heart break to think of all the grief and sorrow that would be with Brandt. She knew what that sort of pain was like and what damage it could do. He maybe German, but that didn't mean that he should lose those he loved.

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The night was dark and quiet, there were no planes over Brussels. Only the moon, visible through the crack in the curtains, broke the dark confines. Its silvery light spilling onto the floor, creating a small glowing spot.

It was late, everyone else had finished work for the night and had gone home. He should have too, but what was a home for if not for family. He didn't have a reason to go home any longer. He just there, sitting in his darkened office, downing glass after glass of Cognac and trying to ignore the immense loss he was feeling.

He emptied the glass. They were gone. Why were they gone! His wife and son, both dead because some pilots got their markers wrong. He slammed his glass down. Dropping bombs on innocent women and children, they were murderers. MURDERERS! He grabbed the bottle from the desk. They would regret killing his wife and son, they all would. Every single damn one of them! They would pay.

He upended the bottle, only for a small trickle of the amber coloured liquid to pour out. The damn thing was empty, it had full when he'd started drinking. He glared at it for a moment and then lobed it across the room in frustration. It hit the wall and shattered on impact, showering the floor with broken glass.

He slammed both hands down on the desk only to recoil in pain as a sharp stabbing sensation shot through them. Why was all this happening? He clasped his face with both hands and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the slight throbbing behind them.

He opened his eyes, suddenly aware that the pain had stopped. He was surrounded by a soft golden light, glittering and shining around him. "Herr Major," a voice said softly. "Herr Major." It was a soft melodic voice, and comforting almost like a song. "Herr Major." The voice seemed to be fading, as if it's owner were moving away, getting fainter and fainter with each passing moment. "Herr Major..."

He awoke suddenly and looked around. He was...back in his office...and the door was open. Why was the door open, it had been shut before. Now light was falling into the room, illuminating the first few feet, but leaving him in shadow. He squinted irritably at it, why was it open.

It was at that moment that he noticed a shadow by the doorway, someone was standing just inside the room. There wasn't anyone else in the building though, that would mean... His eyes widened. An angel, the angel from his dream standing before him, shimmering with heavenly light.

He stared in awe, she was beautiful. Skin like fresh snow, eyes like Sapphires and golden curls that cascaded down her shoulders. She moved towards him, gliding across the floor so gracefully, and then stopped. And as she did so, the patch of moonlight fell upon her, making her gown glisten with starlight. She held out a hand towards him and a soft smile graced her lips. She was so beautiful.

He reached out to touch her. One touch, just one. That fair skin, that golden hair, those soft lips, he had to touch her. Just as he got close enough, she seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye, leaving only a faint hint of vanilla in the air.

He smiled softly. His angel, his beautiful angel.

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 **A/N-What do you think? See you all next time!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N-Hello, people. This is Chapter 3. Sorry for the delay I have been having computer issues. Have Fun! AM**

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There wasn't very much to buy in the shops any more, not very much that she could afford anyway. The Germans wanted all the best food for themselves and so took the animals on the hoof, causing whatever was left to be sold at a high price. Much too high for someone like her to afford more than just the basics, so most of what she ate consisted of bread and potatoes, and that took up most of her wages as was. One would think that being employed by the Germans would mean extras, but no. Yes, she was allowed to buy more than everyone else, but that was to be used in the Avenue Louise only, and at the end of each and every day she had to account for everything used. There were ways to get extras, but none of which she was willing to partake in, no matter what other people said.

The Greengrocers was one of the worst places. Not only was there barely anything on the shelves any longer, but it was also where the majority of the pot shots were taken. There was one woman, Madam Ceelen, one of those snooty, 'I'm superior to you', upper middle class types, who was forever complaining about 'those girls', in other words any girls who were overly friendly with the Germans. And unfortunately because of her job, she fitted in to that bracket very nicely. Although they were were never said to her face, she was pretty sure that Madam Ceelen was the origin of such nicknames as 'the Germans' Whore' and 'the Nazis' Slut'.

She turned the corner and a cold breeze suddenly picked up, it was definitely getting colder, Winter would surely arrive soon. She pulled her coat further around her, she would have to replace it soon. It was her favourite colour, a deep red, but it was starting to get thin in places and probably wouldn't last through another Winter. Her aunt had been a seamstress, one of the best in Brussels. Silk, velvet, satin, lace, she could do it all no matter the difficulty. Replacing that one missing button, adjusting the seams on a dress that was just that bit too snug or reworking those garments too worn out into something brand new, nothing was too much.

She crossed the road and turned onto the Avenue Louise, heading in the direction of Gestapo Headquarters. It was her day off, or half a day off at least, and she was intending to spend the rest of it with Monique. She got half a day off every week; it had originally been on a Sunday to give her the chance to go to church, but not being Catholic, she hadn't seen the point and so had changed it to a Saturday. On a Saturday morning, she would make a note of what supplies were needed, go restock at the shops and then head to the Candide for a chat with Monique. It had become a ritual of sorts.

She had first met Monique before all of it, the war, the death, the destruction, the Germans. She had been in her aunt's shop, assisting in altering a dress for a regular customer, when a young woman walked in wanting a new blouse. She had just got a new job as a waitress at a café called Le Candide and wanted to look her best for her new boss. Although she suspected that it was more than just that, as while being measured, the woman told her that the owner, an Albert Foiret, kept watching her and had offered her the job almost immediately. That had been 5 years ago now and she and Monique had been good friends ever since.

"May I see your papers please, Mademoiselle,"

A policeman stood in front of her, his uniform buttons glinting in the crisp autumn sunshine.

"Your papers please, Mademoiselle," he repeated.

She was never happy when someone asked for her papers, because every time there was a chance that they would realise what was wrong with them. They were fake. When she had first arrived in Brussels, her aunt had seen fit to register her as French, and burn any evidence of her life in England. An act which had, in effect, saved her life.

"You've just been to the shop I see," the policeman said, looking at the basket in her left hand. "May I see the contents of your baskets, Mademoiselle?"

"May I ask what you are looking for, Monsieur?" she asked.

"We are searching for Black Marketeers, Mademoiselle. And so we must check everything. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, Monsieur, you must do your job," she replied, pulling back the fabric cover of her basket.

He examined its contents for a few moments and then straightened back up. "Very well, Mademoiselle, you may go."

In the back of her mind, she knew that it was just a ruse. The police were never just looking for Black Marketeers, especially not when German soldiers were involved. The Black Market was a civilian matter and therefore nothing to do with the German officials. The only reason why soldiers would be searching the area was that they were on the trail of some Allied Airmen.

It was common knowledge there was an escape line operating somewhere in the city; of course everyone knew that. There were always rumours about it going around; who was running it, where airmen were being hidden and of course what you could get from the Germans if you gave them valuable information, although she usually only heard the latter from some of the other people in her building. It didn't matter what was said though; the people running the line always seemed to be two steps ahead, which would be rather amusing if it did not mean more hours and the cancelling of her half day off, and all without any extra wages.

And that was a problem, the lack of wages. How could it be possible for there to be such a huge gap between peoples' livelihoods when the country was at war. There were people who lived on luxuries and ate out every night at expensive restaurants. And then there were people like her, who were struggling to get by and were forced to live on whatever meagre supplies that were available. It sickened her sometimes, that any of this was even possible. And then, other times she knew that this was life, life wasn't fair and there was nothing that anyone could do about it.

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She was very glad that she was headed to the Candide and not stuck in the kitchens. While putting away her latest supplies, Anton had come down for more coffee and had mentioned that an operation had gone wrong and that Kessler was now on the war path…again, and that she should be careful for the next few days. It was a good piece of advice, but she knew that Kessler wasn't much of a danger, she was a maid, nothing more, too low on the scale to be noticed very often. It was the ordinary Belgians that were the problem, she had told Anton this and he had still warned her to be careful even if she was just going to the Candide. Anything could happen, especially on the side streets.

She stopped at the Candide's back door and knocked. The door was locked, they always kept it locked, for security reasons; something about angry Belgians and Swastikas. The local people weren't happy with their country being invaded and occupied by foreign soldiers; even more so with the constant display of Swastikas above every café, shop and restaurant, the owners of most of which complained feverently about being forced to the display the obnoxious item.

"I thought it would be you," a man's voice said form behind her.

She turned around. Albert Foiret was standing in the doorway attired in his usual dress-shirt and waistcoat, having not had the chance to change after the lunch service.

"Hello, Albert," she greeted. "How's the restaurant doing?"

"It's been busy," he replied, closing the door behind her.

"I can see why, this is a nice place to be," she said wandering into the other room.

It was true, the Candide was a pleasant place to be, it always was. The décor, an attractive mix of wallpaper and wood panelling, set of by white table cloths and shining floor tiles, somehow gave the air of luxury without being too ostentation.

"Hi, Monique," she said. Monique paused and turned around, cloth in one hand and a glass in the other.

"Hello Ella, how has work been recently?" Monique asked.

Monique asked the same question every week, with sometimes a variation in the words used.

"It was fine," she replied, removing her coat and dumping it over the back of one of the dining chairs.

"Have you thought about the job?" Monique asked, replacing some newly dried glasses on the shelves behind the bar.

She sat down at the piano and played a few bars of _Sur le pont d'Avignon._ Monique had offered her a part-time job as a waitress, a few weeks ago. Apparently, their former waitress had to be let go after she had been less that discreet in her 'activities', and now they were one short.

"Monique…" she started.

"Jacques has got mice in his cellar again," Albert said, walking into the room.

Jacques Bardot was a friend of Albert's and owned a local bakery, and a good one at that.

"Does he need any help getting rid of them?" Monique asked, frowning.

"No, Alain is going over there tomorrow," Albert replied.

The telephone on the behind the bar started ringing, Monique leaned over. "Restaurant Candide," she said. After a few moments her face dropped, "are you sure? No, it's okay. I hope you feel better soon."

"Something wrong?" Albert asked once Monique had hung up the phone.

"Simone is not feeling well and can't make it tonight," Monique answered.

Albert frowned, "that's a shame," he said. "We'll have to find someone to cover her."

Monique turned around and looked at her directly. "Ella?" she asked.

She searched her mind for an excuse, knowing that she was stuck between her conscience and her need for some rest. Finding none, she threw her hands up in defeat, "alright Monique, I'll accept your offer. But only until you find someone permanent."

Monique smiled at her in victory. Why did she have to be friends with someone as just stubborn as she was.

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 **A/N-So, was it worth the wait? If it was, please leave a review below. See you all later. AM**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N-Hi, I'm back, with one of my quickest updates ever. Te he he. AM**

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As it turned out, one night had now turned into fifteen. When Monique had told her that they were short staffed, what she really meant was that they were having trouble finding a new waitress and had resorted to asking their staff to do overtime. Apparently people weren't that keen to work at a restaurant where the majority of its patrons were Germans. To her it didn't really make a difference, she was a maid to the Germans during the day so to serve them in the evening as a waitress wasn't much of a stretch.

She took the silvered teaspoon from the table and stirred the contents of her cup. For the past three weeks she had been limited to working behind the bar and taking orders to the kitchens, but tonight she would be on the floor serving customers. It wouldn't be too bad, she had already worked with some of the other members of staff.

Not including herself there were five other members, three who worked full-time and the other two only part time. She already knew Natalie, she was a friend of Monique's and lived in one of the rooms upstairs. Pierre, another of the full-time employees, was a middle aged man of average height with grey hair and an interest in trains. And Genevieve, the other full time employee, a quiet young woman with mousy appearance and a soft smile that customers seemed to enjoy. They were all fairly pleasant, never a bad word to say amongst them.

She picked up the cup and took a sip, she wasn't that fond of coffee, even the fake concoction currently available, but as long as it was hot and wet she didn't mind the taste. She was supposed to be waiting for Alain, a close friend of Monique and Albert's, and a local farmer as well. He was going to be bringing in some produce from his farm to be used in the restaurant. Carrots, parsnips, cabbages the like. Albert had been waiting for him to arrive but had had to step out for some important reason that he hadn't seen fit to disclose. She sat down in one of the chairs and closed her eyes. If he chose not to reveal what he was doing or where he was going, then it was none of her business. At least it was quiet…and warm by the stove.

Bang. She opened her eyes at the sound and glanced at the door. Monique could get it, she was only in the other room...no…that was unfair. She put her cup down on the table and went out of the room to the door. Alain was standing there, his arms loaded with a large wooden crate. She wrenched the heavy metal door open.

"Hello Alain," she said, holding the door open for him. "Come in."

"Thanks," he murmured, heaving the crate inside. "Where do you want this?" he asked.

"Uh...in here on the desk," she replied, leading him into the back room and retrieving her cup from the desk in the process.

Once the crate of vegetables was in place, Alain turned to her. "It's definitely getting colder out there," he said.

"You don't have to tell me that," she said, smiling. "Do you want some coffee?"

"Don't mind if I do," he replied. "Is Albert here?" he asked, rubbing his hands together.

"No, he left about half an hour ago," she replied, pouring him a cup.

"Is there anyone else here or are you on your own right now?"

"Monique is in the other room getting the tables ready. Which reminds me, I should probably tell her that you're here. Give me a moment," she said and wandered into the dining room where Monique was dressing the tables for the evening service. "Hey, Monique, Alain's here. I told him to put the crate in the back room for Albert to look over when he gets back."

"Thanks, Ella, can you finish dressing the tables for me? I need to have a word with Alain before he leaves," Monique said.

"Okay," she replied.

She put her cup down on the bar and picked up the pile of table cloths. All in all working in the Candide wasn't too bad; yes she got some rather dirty looks from some of the guests, but the pay was better and she wasn't treated like a servant. The hours were better too.

The evening service started at half six and finished five hours later at half past eleven. She normally finished work at 6:00 which left her half an hour to go home change and then come back. Usually she could make it back to the Candide in time for it to re-open, but other times things could become complicated. There were many people who didn't like her or what she did as a job. It didn't bother her, being called a collaborator, she was used to it. Besides, everyone who worked in the Candide got called a collaborator. Apparently, if you help the 'evil' Germans in any way you are a traitor to your own kind. It shouldn't be that way though; they were all just doing the jobs that they were being paid to do. Whether that be running a restaurant favoured by the Germans or serving them coffee for ten hours a day, it didn't matter. They were all just trying to survive a war that none of them had started.

"Restaurant Candide."

She turned around, Albert was standing behind the bar, telephone in hand. "yes Sir, 8 o'clock," he said. "Thank you, Sir."

Ella paused in unfolding one of the table cloths. "What was that about?" she asked, once he had put the telephone back in its cradle.

"Kessler wants a table for tonight," he replied.

* * *

The entire restaurant was packed. She was standing beside Albert waiting for Kessler to arrive. He had asked her to assist him when the German arrived, something about throwing her in at the deep end. It wasn't something she particularly wanted to do. Kessler was something of a greasy weasel, all short and self important.

"Ah, Herr Sturmbannführer, a pleasure," Albert said, stepping forward to greet the new arrival. She looked up, said weasel was standing in front of Albert in all his weasly glory. "Let me show you to your table. Gabrielle, serve the wine." She schooled her face into a sweet smile and did as instructed. Only three more hours.

* * *

Oh great! She closed the door behind her and dumped her coat on the sofa. The words _'Chienne d'Allemande'_ , which translated roughly as 'German's Bitch', was scrawled across her door in something that she could only hoped was lipstick. She would have to wash that off.

This was the place that she had been living in for the past four years. The building itself had five floors and she lived in one of the two flats on the top floor. The rooms were small and the facilities poor, just a bedroom, a leaky bathroom with a severely limited amount of hot water and a living room that doubled as a kitchen with just a single wall as a partition. The only upside, there was attic space.

She checked the locks on the front door, making sure that they were all in place and working before heading to her room. There wasn't anyone else living on this floor, but she still preferred to keep her door locked at all times. Some of her neighbours on the other floors were dodgy to say the least. A prostitute, some Black Marketeers and the ring leader of a rather nasty group of thieves. If it wasn't for the fact that they kept to themselves, she would have abandoned the place a long time ago.

The option was still there, but a decrepit flat was better than stuck out on the freezing street. The place was cold anyway, she didn't care, it always was. Coal was too expensive to get and there wasn't any wood. Besides she spent most of her time working, the flat was only for sleeping.

She removed her uniform and pulled on her night dress. What had originally reached her shins was now about 3 inches above her knees; a choice between length or width had occurred and width had prevailed, what did it matter though, no one ever saw it. She flicked off the light and crawled into bed. Across the city, there were people living in luxury, not forced to survive hand to mouth. Those people could afford to eat at the Candide every night. She curled up under the covers and closed her eyes. All those people in their nice warm beds…lucky bastards.

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 **A/N-What do you think? If you liked it, see that little white box below, leave a review in it. :) AM**


	5. Chapter 5

Tick, tock, tick, tock. There might as well be a clock in her head. Tick, tock, tick tock. She was standing behind the bar, waiting. The restaurant was full of the usual people, Germans, Nazis, the upper middle class snobs, all chattering about god knows what, it was all terribly boring. The evening had started out quite busy, she had been run off of her feet at one point. People wanted a high class experience to act as a distraction to the war or in most cases, because they thought they deserved the best treatment. There were definitely some names she could add to the latter, Kessler being one of them.

Every time he arrived at the restaurant with his lady friend, he was over demanding and in her mind acted like a petulant child. Normally she hated having to serve him and was very grateful when Albert took over instead, but tonight she could have really used the distraction. There was simply nothing to do and nothing entertaining to contemplate about. Then again…why were _they_ here?

On one of the left hand tables were some Luftwaffe officers. Two young men involved in a conversation, a rather interesting one by the looks of it. They kept looking at something she couldn't see. There must be a third man sitting with them, probably behind the wooden partition. It wasn't that common for Luftwaffe officers to dine at the Candide; it was usually the reserve of the SS, so why were they there. She had heard rumours of a top allied pilot being hidden somewhere in the city. Could that be why they were there? They didn't want to be overheard. One of the first rules Albert had set down was keep your distance with the patrons. But still, why were they there?

Something caught the corner of her eye. A man had come out from behind the curtain leading to the back room. He shouldn't have been there, he wasn't allowed back there, no customers were. It was becoming a bit of a regular occurrence, seeing people loitering around places where they wouldn't normally. When she had walked to the Candide earlier in the day and she had kept seeing men in alleys, doorways,on street corners. It wasn't unusual for people to be hiding in alleyways just to throw insults at her, but these people just seemed to watch and then disappear without a single word.

There was something strange going on. A man who shouldn't have been anywhere near the staff area, had walked in and out without anyone noticing. And all those men hanging around the Candide the past few days. What in the world was going on. Sneaking down back alleys was something she was well acquainted with; what better way to enter a building without being seen. Wait a minute…people loitering around, alleyways, sneaking into buildings…the back door. The back door was right beside the staff door…it was locked though, surely.

Before she could even move an inch to check the locks, a man burst into the room brandishing what looked like a rolling pin. In a loud voice he yelled, "NAZI PIGS! COLABORATORS!" and threw the object into the middle of the floor. There was definitely something unusual about her.

* * *

Why was it so difficult to find one allied pathfinder. They had informants all over Brussels and yet they had nothing solid to go on. It looked bad on them and Kessler was still of the mind that the Luftwaffe was expendable and the only true heroes of the Third Reich were the SS. The issues lay with the escape lines. They were battle hardened and had been evading them for the past three years with nary a clue to their identities. There must be something that had been overlooked. Leutnants Müller and Dreyer were useful to have around, they were both conscientious and extremely loyal and never strayed from a task, but that wasn't enough. It was imperative that they find the pilot without any more complications.

A man suddenly burst into the room from behind them, brandishing an explosive device. "NAZI PIGS! COLABORATORS!" he yelled and then threw the device onto the floor. A moment of silence followed where not a soul moved, then one of the ladies in the room screeched in terror and chaos took hold.

They needed cover, the dining tables wouldn't survive an explosion but might just offer enough cover to assist them. They waited, seconds passed and not a sound from the device.

"Müller! Dreyer! Get the people out of here immediately! And then get on to bomb disposal!" he ordered. The two Leutnants immediately stood and began to usher the people away from the danger. He turned to the owner, "Monsieur Foiret! Your office please."

* * *

Why were people so determined to cause trouble? Of course they hated the Nazi party, but not all Germans were associated with the Fuhrer; he certainly wasn't. He was fighting for his country, for the country that his wife loved, for the country that his daughter would grow up in. Not for some ideals of a thousand year Reich, or whatever they wanted now. He would defend his country, no matter the cost.

"Herr Major?" a voice asked.

* * *

It wasn't that difficult to slip away from the others and nip around the corner to the back door, no one was really paying attention anyway, they were all just panicking about the dangerous explosive. It had been a been a bit strange after that man had burst into the room wielding the bomb. One minute everything was still, someone yelled 'it's a bomb!' and then all hell broke loose and everyone was ushered out of the door by the two Luftwaffe officers.

They were all suppose to remain outside the building in case the explosion suddenly triggered, but she had left something in Monique's room upstairs that she wanted back. It may have been a bit stupid, but it was important and she wasn't going to lose it to some lunatic with a penchant for explosives. Besides, as a child she had been called brave and stupid, a compliment at the time but now what could be a deadly flaw.

She headed towards the stairs, but stopped just shy of the door. Someone was standing in the restaurant; she could see the shadow of a man behind the bar. There was nothing to say who it was and she wasn't going to wait around to find out who had decided that lurking around about six feet from a bomb was a good idea. She could be a bit fearless sometimes, but standing that close to a bomb on purpose was not something that she would do.

"Herr Major?" she asked.

* * *

He turned around, the young waitress - what was her name?…Gabrielle was standing by the door. "you shouldn't be here," he said. "It isn't safe."

She took a step towards him. "Why are _you_ still here then?" she asked.

"It is part of my job," he replied. "You _should_ leave, Mademoiselle, there is still an unexploded bomb."

"But you're going to stay here?" she questioned, her eyebrows drawn together, a look that made her seem as though she were trying to conceive the solution.

"Mademoiselle…"

"Herr Major, aren't you concerned that the bomb will go off while you're standing here?"

She looked straight up at him, there was something in her blue eyes, something almost reminiscent of childlike hope. He couldn't help but smile, how could someone so innocent survive in such a harsh world.

"Mademoiselle, we have men trained to deal with situations such as these."

"Sometimes…sometimes I wish that people would choose other methods to express their displeasure," she said after a moment.

"Our countries are at war," he replied

"People don't seem to understand that though," she replied. "They are angry at being told what to do by those they see as criminals and invaders. They aim their rage at people they don't even know and think that they will get something out of it."

"You're quite wise, aren't you?"

She smiled softly, "I try." There was something about this girl, something that he could not explain.

"Gabrielle," a voice said. "Go outside and stop interrupting the Major." Monsieur Foiret had returned from taking care of some business and was standing beside the door.

Gabrielle nodded slightly in response and started towards the door only to stop and glance over her shoulder at him.

"Keeping going," Monsieur Foiret said firmly. Gabrielle turned back to the door and continued walking outside. "I apologise for her, Herr Major, she is new."

"That's fine," he replied distractedly, eyes still lingering on the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N-Hello! I meant to get this out in time for St Nicholas Day, but it's almost Christmas so who cares. AM**

* * *

She was rather happy. It was almost St Nicholas Day and as such she had been given an extra day off. The Germans had seen fit to allow the staff to have two extra days off in December, as they weren't cruel invaders, they were reasonable human beings. It didn't matter to her either way; a day off was a day off after all.

She gave up trying to hang the garland and let it drop to the floor like the dead weight it truly was. It just wasn't going to happen. She couldn't hold up one end and attach it while simultaneously stopping the other end from slipping and dragging the whole lot back down to earth again.

Where had Monique and Natalie got to? She was supposed to be helping them decorate the Candide, an activity which had started off as cheerful, but they had seemingly disappeared into the back room, and left her trying to hang garlands up alone, an action which seemed to verge on the impossible.

They always seemed to be doing that, disappearing suddenly into the back room. And not just those two either. Albert and Max and Alain did it as well, and it was really starting to get annoying. What was so important that kept causing them to disappear without even an explanation? It wasn't just the disappearing either; they kept having whispered conversations that would stop as soon as she approached the door. Didn't they know that it was rude to keep secrets, especially at this time of the year. She may not celebrate St Nicholas very much any more, but she had celebrated it to some extent when she was little, and it wasn't right to lie. That's what her mother had told her anyway.

Her mother was French and had celebrated it when she was a little girl. It had been a tradition that she had taught to her children. A tradition that her aunt had continued, trying to ease her transition when she left England. It didn't mean that she didn't miss Christmas though. What she wouldn't give to be back home in England with her friends and celebrate the holidays in the way they always used to as children.

Every year, a small group of them would go to one of their houses on Christmas Eve and exchange presents and play games and sing songs. It had all been a lot of fun. She would miss being able to spend Christmas with her friends, but at least she had people here to spend time with.

This time of year was meant to be for fun. The opportunity to spend time with family and friends and know that you were loved by someone. It was probably one of the best times of the year, even if for the past few she had to fit the celebrations in around her shifts with the Germans.

It wasn't as if they were rude to her. The majority of them were either polite or just simply ignored her. It was what other people would call an oxymoron. The Germans were the invaders, they were bad. And yet, she found most of them to be gentlemen, particularly the Luftwaffe and some of the younger office staff. Those men and boys who were only in the war to fight for the country they loved and not for the political goals of some lunatic with a stupid moustache.

It sickened her that there were children out there right now who were on the streets because their homes had been destroyed and their parents killed for reasons that were not theirs to control. All those small children who knew nothing but fear and pain and didn't even get a chance to enjoy a safe and happy Christmas.

She knew what it was to be alone and afraid at Christmas. Her first celebration alone had been a lonely affair. Christmas 1940, her mother was dead, her brother, her sister, her aunt. It had been cold; she was stuck in a country aged fourteen with no one she knew very well. At one point she had seriously considered turning herself into the Germans just so she could be with other people like her, even if it did mean the possibility of being executed, or so she assumed at the time. She had gathered her meagre possessions and had been ready to set off when Monique had appeared at the door. She had come to check up on her and after seeing that she was going had instantly insisted that she come to the Candide to spend Christmas with her and some close friends. It had been that kind offer that had put aside all notions of turning herself in to the Germans and made her come to the decision to continue living under their noses and one day, when the war was over, return to England with her savings and make sure that no one else was forced to survive the way she had.

* * *

As he walked into the outer office, Müller stood up and came to attention.

"Müller, find out what course the plane was on before it crashed, and get on to Müller and Dreyer, tell them I want to see them here in thirty minutes."

"Yes, Sir. Sir, there is an envelope on your desk. It was brought by earlier," Müller replied.

"Who sent it?" he asked.

"They did not say, Sir. Only that it was to be left on your desk."

"Very well, get back to work, Müller."

He continued into his office and closed the door. Sitting on his desk, as he had been informed, was an envelope. He picked up a letter opener and slit the top open, not that it essentially needed it. It was clear that it had had prior use and been tidied up by the sender as well as was possible.

Instead of containing a letter though, it contained a card, if you could call it that. It was quite simple; plain white paper with a drawing of a reindeer on the front. He opened it. Written inside, in an elegant hand, were the words, 'Merry Christmas Herr Major, from Gabrielle'.

He smiled, who else would leave a Christmas card on his desk and be able to convince Anton to lie. In truth the boy was not as intuitive as his brother, but he was clever and reliable, a trait that must have attracted the young maid. He knew that the Gefreiter was close with her; it was an obvious conclusion to make. He often saw them together talking, and had over heard snippets of conversation. They were usually about personal matters, activities done when they were not working, stories from childhood and Gabrielle enquiring about his family back in Munich after he had received a letter informing him that they were not well.

She had a kind heart. Not many people would enquire about a stranger's family when they were ill. Hatred was commonplace in the city between the inhabitants and themselves, so it was a rare thing to see a person, who was effectively a servant, act with such utter kindness and sweet innocence towards an invader. It warmed his heart.

* * *

She stood in place beside Albert, as was her duty. Brandt and Kessler were two of the most important and regular customers at the Candide, and as such, Albert always insisted on giving them the best service possible, even if that meant giving them personal treatment.

"Gentlemen, if there is anything else you require at all, Gabrielle will see to your needs personally."

At the sound of her name, she stepped forward with a slight bounce in her step and smiled sweetly, "Herr Major, Herr Sturmbannführer," she replied in the same manner, her hands folded neatly in front.

"That is very kind, Monsieur Foiret," Kessler replied.

Albert turned to her, "Gabrielle, go fetch a bottle of the special Burgundy for our honoured guests."

She smiled, "yes, Monsieur."

She bobbed her head at each of them and walked off towards the bar to fetch the bottle of wine. It was all an act really, being sweet towards them. Albert had asked her to assist him in serving the more senior Germans, but she saw fit to add in a smile and cosy up to them. After all any of them could mention her behaviour and give her the chance at a pay rise or at least better hours. Besides it offered a safety net in case her secret was discovered.

* * *

She stretched; the service was almost over now. Most of the staff had gone home for the evening and the others had retreated into the back room, so she had been left to mind the restaurant for the remaining half an hour until closing, something which she hoped would pass by quickly. The evening had been a long one and she was tired; every table had been booked well in advance and had been for the past two weeks.

All the tables were empty now though, all except one. Major Brandt was still sitting at one of the tables alone. He and Kessler had started arguing halfway through dinner, something about ranks and murder. She'd only heard a small part of it when she had returned with the wine; they stopped talking when she was standing there. Whatever it had been was clearly something important, as Kessler had stormed off in fury leaving Brandt alone at the table. That had been two hours ago now and he hadn't moved since.

"Ella," Natalie said, poking her head around the door. "Monique's made some coffee, do you want some?"

"No, I'm alright" she replied. "Hey Natalie!"

The blonde reappeared from behind the door, "yes?"

"How long has the Major been alone at the table for now?"

"Monique brought him more Cognac about half an hour ago, why?"

"Never mind," she replied quickly. She didn't want to let on that she was concerned about him. It was okay to cosy up to the Germans to get extra business, but caring about them on a personal level was off limits.

"If you're sure," Natalie replied. She nodded in response, the blonde withdrew her head and closed the door.

Everyone else had left, so why was he still there?

She walked over to him and stopped, "Is there anything else I can get for you, Herr Major?" she asked. He didn't look up, "Herr Major?" she said softly. His hands were shaking, barely managing to keep the glass upright. She had seen this before. Her mother had taken to drink not long after she was widowed. She sat down in the chair that Kessler had vacated previously, and with practised hands, removed the glass he was holding.

The contents had been half spilled on the table in an amber stain on the tablecloth. She placed the glass on the table and put her hands on his, squeezing them lightly. "Talk to me," she whispered softly. He didn't respond, his gaze shifted to their hands. She continued, "I know what happened to your wife, to your son. You're grieving, I know, but drinking away your pain doesn't help."

"How would you now how I feel?" he croaked out. His gaze now fixed on her.

"I'm all alone here," she replied, matter-of-factly. "I have been for three years. My family are all dead."

"You speak as though you don't care,"

She retracted her hands suddenly and gave him a sharp glare, anger flaring in her blood. She pushed her chair back and stood up. "I care for them more than you will ever know," she hissed. "I think it's time that you left."

She turned away from him and walked off. Maybe she shouldn't have been so harsh with him, after all he had been drinking. But what he had said had made her so angry. How dare he think that she didn't care that her family was dead! She thought about them everyday, and at night they were in her dreams and in her nightmares too.

* * *

 **A/M-Any opinions? If you like it, leave a review. See you all next time everyone. Merry Christmas. AM**


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